Page 80 of Deviant Obsession

Rhea

The breeze whipsmy hair across my face as I hurry past the library, my boots crunching through scattered leaves that paint the concrete in shades of amber and rust. My last class of the day is finally over, the safe quiet of my apartment calling to me like a homing beacon. I keep my head down, weaving between clusters of laughing freshmen who seem to move in slow motion compared to my hurried stride.

The psychology building looms ahead and my steps falter for a heartbeat before I veer sharply left, taking the long way around. I've spent the past two weeks memorizing new routes across campus, mapping safe passages that minimize the risk of certain encounters.

A group of girls spills out of the student center, forcing me to dodge right. Their carefree chatter about weekend plans and upcoming midterm results feels like it's echoing from another universe—one where I haven't systematically destroyed my own life.

The wind picks up, sending leaves spiraling around my ankles like nature's own anxiety attack. Just fifteen more minutes and I can lock myself in my room, bury myself in textbooks, and pretend that studying is the only thing thatmatters. As if grades could possibly overshadow the gnawing emptiness that's been growing since I sent that text asking for space.

My carefully planned escape route takes me past the Business School—a calculated risk I deemed necessary to avoid the Psychology building. The irony of choosing this path isn't lost on me as I quicken my pace, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. But Dean barely goes to class anyway, there’s little chance of running into him.

I really should know better than to tempt fate like that.

The impact knocks the breath from my lungs as I collide with what feels like a brick wall. Strong hands catch my elbows before I can stumble, and my heart stutters to a halt at the familiar touch. I don't need to look up to know who I've crashed into. My body recognizes Dean's steadying grip before my mind can even process it.

"Careful there, sweetheart," he chuckles, resorting to that teasing nickname he used before we got to know each other in every possible way two humans can. "Don’t look at me like that. I swear I'm not stalking you…thistime."

He releases me quickly, taking a step back as if he's not sure he's allowed to touch me anymore. The space between us feels like a gaping chasm, filled with everything we're not saying. Everything I can't say.

"Marketing just let out," he presses on, gesturing vaguely toward the building behind him. His attempt at casual conversation sounds forced, strained. "I still think it’s boring as hell, in case you were wondering. But Ethan would knock me out if he caught me playing hooky."

I clutch my bag tighter, searching desperately for words that won't come. The silence gets very awkward, very quickly, but I can’t seem to regain my grasp of the English language when he’s looking at me that way. That earnest stare that begs for answers.

"I should... um." I start to step around him, but he shifts slightly, not quite blocking my path but making it clear he has more to say.

"Rhea, wait." The raw longing in those two words freezes me in place. "I know you asked for space, and I'm trying to respect that. But I need to understand what changed. What I did wrong."

"You didn't..." The rebuttal sticks in my throat. I can't summon any rational explanation that wouldn’t lead to more questions.

It’s not you, it’s me.

The sickening cliché churns in my stomach until I’m in danger of losing my lunch. I never thought I’d see the day where I became the villain, but the truth is as glaring as the California sun beating against our heads.

Dean clenches and unclenches his fist by his side, a gesture of frustration I've seen a hundred times. But just as he opens his mouth, no doubt to ask more questions I’m not ready to answer, clipped footsteps approach from behind me, their owner catching Dean’s eye.

"Hey, Dad." His casual greeting sounds a little disappointed, the tension not quite leaving his eyes as he offers a half-grin over my shoulder. I barely have half a second to wonder why Dean’s stepdad would be visiting the university when the reply comes, and my blood freezes in my veins.

“Hi, Dean. Miss Foster. I wasn’t aware you two knew each other.”

The memory of a black Audi rushes through my mind so quickly it’s as if it had been straining against the floodgates for this exact moment. The car I'd spotted outside Deviant that first night, the theory that drove me to venture inside. Of course, I’d forgotten the whole thing within five minutes of running into Dean, an encounter that changed everything in an instant.

Now I can only kick myself for not remembering sooner. For not drawing connections when the clues were laid out before me.

Professor Shaw. Lloyd Shaw.

Dean's stepfather.

Owner of Deviant.

The world tilts dangerously on its axis as every piece clicks into place.

The therapist who helped the twins’ mother work through her trauma all those years ago. The psychologist who married her and then raised her sons when she skipped town. The professor—the one who bent me over his desk and made me beg—trained his own stepsons in the art of dominance. The man who praised me for taking his cock so well helped shape the twins into the doms who claimed me as theirs.

I can’t do anything other than gape as he strides into my peripheral vision. Paralysis has claimed every muscle in my body, despite my brain screaming at me to run. Professor Shaw maintains his neutral expression, but I catch the slight tension in his jaw.

"P-professor." I wince at my own stammer betraying my nerves so thoroughly. Dean's head snaps toward me, confusion clouding his features as he processes my no-doubt horrified expression.

His fingers wrap around my wrist before I can bolt, his grip tight enough to bruise. "Rhea, what's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

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